Intermittent Rage
by JackSparrowsBooty
Summary: The BAU shows up at a psychiatric hospital in Medical Lake, Washington to investigate a series of murders of psych patients. Takes place around season four.
1. Chapter 1

**Present**

Despite the harsh brightness of the overhead lights, the hospital corridors still had a somewhat disturbing, shadowy quality to them. There had been drastic measures taken of late to improve the conditions of the interior—not just to appease visiting politicians and financial supporters of their increasing concerns that the 150-year-old building was showing major signs of dilapidation and that patients were still valued members of society and deserved to live in a place that was up to code, but it also seemed to have a calming and pleasing effect on staff and the residents. The floors were neatly tiled, walls painted a soothing shade of green, and renovations had improved the overall look of the place, but to the BAU agents, Morgan being the only one to vocalize his discomfort, the place was still eerie.

The patients had finally been ushered into their rooms by the slow-moving, blasé night staff, and the agents each paired off to sweep the deeply-extended hallways that seemed to stretch on for miles. To Hotch, this reminded him of classically nightmarish scenes from movies and TV shows—a dark corridor that appears to become impossibly longer when one attempts to find a way out of it. He and Emily had opted to turn down the East wing, the one that Morgan had declared as the "creepiest" area of the asylum, and Hotch had to admit that being it was the oldest part of the building, it did have a certain unsettling ambience to it.

"Prentiss," he said softly as they approached a separate area for the East wing, part of it an adjunct to the hall of rooms when the hospital had decided additional beds were necessary. Her slight form was a half-step from his side, and their eyes met. The dark eyes framed with long lashes were wide, unblinking when they flitted in his direction. She nodded to show that she understood his objective. He held up his right hand and they halted, and he then motioned toward the right with his index finger, then continued forward, weapon unsheathed and safety removed.

Robert Hughes, the 24-year-old man that the staff had brought to their attention was known to be extremely aggressive with authority, had been infamous with his violent temper, often using whatever was nearest and handy to either throw or use as a weapon. He'd been supplanted from a county correctional facility for his emotional instability, but in spite of his violent behavior, he was kept there because of his mental frailty; he had been diagnosed with a severe schizotypal personality disorder and experienced intermittent, explosive outbursts with extreme paranoia. Hotch wasn't entirely convinced that this young man was capable of crafting a plot to hoard his medication, use it to drug the young women on the other side of the hospital, and finally rape and murder them a week later. With his crippling mental problems, he doubted Hughes had the capacity to think beyond the walls within his mind. But Hotch knew that he must be found, and if he was innocent of murder, he was obviously afraid of something and they needed to find out why.

Hotch slinked down the hall and swiveled around door thresholds, nearly every room dark and vacant. Each time he shouted an affirmation of clearance, meanwhile listening for a responding "Clear!" from Emily in the other direction. He let his eyes trail around the small space before moving to the next, until he reached the last room near the caged off window, before making his way back up and sweeping the rooms on the opposite side. Just when he pushed off from the metal door, he felt a sharp pinch in his left thigh. He was momentarily distracted, and glanced down, brushing his slacks with an aggravated hand. Irritation with jamming his leg into whatever was in his way caused a wave of terror to wash down on him when his fingers ran over the unmistakable feel of a hypodermic needle protruding from the fabric of his pants. He pulled out the offending stick and stared in disbelief at the small syringe—the empty vial revealed that whatever was in it (if there had been anything in it at all, and he sure as hell hoped that was true) was now in his thigh muscle, soon to spread throughout his body. That could be essentially anything given they were in a mental hospital and the kinds of drugs there varied enormously. Even if it didn't contain anything, Hotch knew he was at risk for countless diseases, some that could be treated, some obviously incurable.

Hotch pressed his back against the window bars, swinging his service weapon left and right, searching desperately for an escaping figure, but could not see anything suspicious, though he knew someone was close enough to stab him with a needle and he needed immediate assistance. "Prentiss!" he cried, trying desperately to keep the mounting fear from sneaking into his normally level tone. "I need you!"

He prayed earnestly that the syringe was empty, but his hopes were dashed when an overwhelming dizzy sensation rushed over him. His limbs suddenly turned to rubber and his gun and the needle clattered to the ground when he lost the ability to grip them any longer. His delirious brain caught movement at his right, and he stepped forward to prevent this person from getting away, but Hotch simply collapsed to his hands and knees. "No," he protested quietly. Scrambling footsteps bounced off of the walls, noisy scrapping and a shout of surprise followed.

"Hotch!" Emily called out, but he couldn't seem to lift his gaze from the space between his hands.

"Get 'im," he slurred, fighting to control a mouth that refused to move properly. He felt a surge of anxiety that gave him a brief burst of energy and he attempted to right himself on his feet, but he knew despite his efforts, the medication was winning the battle. "Em'ly," he muttered nearly incoherent, swaying dangerously.

"Hotch, where are you hurt?" she gasped, clutching his shoulders and forcing him to look her in the eyes. The last thing he remembered was Emily's concerned gaze, just as the world spun out of control and darkened, and he collapsed straight into her arms.

Before

Medical Lake, Washington

Eastern State Hospital was sprawling, massive, and a more intimidating structure than expected. Just miles away from Interstate 90, nestled between two bodies of water—aptly named West Medical Lake and Medical Lake—was the imposing structure that seemed to rise up from the stuff of bad horror films. The place itself was solidly built and beautifully landscaped. The manicured gardens and walkways lined with trees gave the Behavioral Analysis Unit a sense of ease at first glance, until the brick-laid hospital was revealed from behind the wall of flora.

Unit Chief Aaron Hotchner wheeled the black SUV around a well-positioned fountain and came to a full stop near the gated entrance, and then hopped out of the drivers' seat, thankful to stretch his long legs after their flight over from Washington DC to the Spokane airport and finally the half-hour drive from Spokane to Medical Lake. The metropolitan in eastern Washington State, small as it was, descended from the urban cityscape into a heavily wooded mountainous area, which, he's sure, was lined with outdoors enthusiasts, campers, locals craving to go fishing and swimming in the summertime. The lakes that flanked the hospital on both sides were visually stunning, but the place itself was a looming presence.

"This place gives me the creeps," Derek Morgan commented as his gaze swung around, head leaning back to glance at the cloud-covered sky. Hotch threw him a look just as a Spokane County sheriff pulled up in his cruiser and a group of four or five doctors suitably dressed in long, white lab coats approached from the gate.

"The location is gorgeous," Emily Prentiss responded as she crawled out of the back of the SUV, followed by Spencer Reid, whose face was tired and drawn. No one had to wonder why.

He'd insisted that his presence was instrumental in solving the batch of murders that had plagued the small town for the past five months, and that his perspective was possibly the most important out of the unit because of his experiences with his mother. Section Chief Erin Strauss and Hotch had sat down with the young genius privately and told him that if he wished to sit this one out, he would be fully supported of such a decision, especially with the turmoil that surrounded his personal life and how closely such a case hit home, but he'd been uncompromising and stalwart. Hotch had been his typical stone-faced self, but he'd been smiling internally, because the young man's determination reminded him so much of himself.

"The building itself is 123-years-old and gives the impression of an imposing presence, but only beds just under 300 residents. 287 to be exact. Back in 1891 residents of Medical Lake donated the area to developers, and it has been historically lauded by the psychiatric community as one of the most visually pleasing facilities on the West Coast."

"287 beds?" Morgan said, frowning dramatically. "In a place this big, you'd think there would be enough room to fit a small army."

"You'd think," one of the men said as he stepped out of the group of lab coats. His gold-colored name tag reflected off of the available light source, even in the growing dusk. It revealed his status as the most important individual of the group of shrinks, medical director _Ph.D_. He was a short little man with a squat, round middle and a bad salt-and-pepper comb over, but a composed grin that seemed deceptively calm. "But we here at Eastern State like to pride ourselves in using every square inch of it to enrich the lives of our residents. We have plenty of areas dedicated to different interests, physical activities, and educational services." He extended a hand to Morgan, who shook it warily. To the agent, this doctor sounded like he was reading from a pamphlet, like it was a sales pitch. Who was he trying to convince here? "I'm the medical director, Frank Fisher. These are my colleagues, Drs. Michael Barnes, Paul Butler, Jennifer Perry, and Victor Gutierrez."

The four agents all politely introduced themselves, then turned when the sheriff, who'd gone entirely unnoticed, cleared his throat to grab their attention. "Oh," Fisher said in an overly-friendly manner, his bushy eyebrows climbing his forehead. "Agents, this is Sheriff Greg Jenkins. He's been heading the investigations out here."

"I'm sorry to interrupt your little introduction ceremony," the 30-something man in muted green uniform said drily. "But I got bad news."

The director's face fell dramatically, showing his first true emotion, concern. "Not another one."

Sheriff Jenkins nodded grimly. "We've got a fresh crime scene, pretty gruesome. You folks better come with me."

Hotch let his gaze wander over the other three FBI agents, who wore matching looks of weariness. They hadn't slept in 20 hours (it was after normal bedtime hours back East), and anytime there was a cross-country plane ride with ridiculous delays as a result of unfortunate storm cells they had encountered when crossing the plains states, there was a general need to decompress. They hadn't even made it to their hotel. This, however, required immediate attention. "Prentiss, have you spoken with JJ? How far behind us were they?"

Emily pulled her cell phone from her pocket and glanced at it. "I talked to her about twenty minutes ago. She said they were having trouble getting their tire replaced. The area is so small, though."

JJ Jareau and Dave Rossi had fallen behind, somehow managing to rent the only vehicle that had three rusty nails imbedded in the front tire of their SUV. The blow out had occurred driving over the many railroad tracks in the area. Fortunately they had avoided any type of injury and had been able to safely maneuver the vehicle away from any sort of danger. Rossi had insisted they move on. That had been nearly an hour ago.

Hotch sighed, and couldn't help the growing sense of foreboding clawing its way into his brain. The case was already off to a terrible start. "All right. Stay in communication with them. Keep them updated with the coordinates of the body's location, will you?"

"Follow me," Jenkins said, sliding back into his cruiser. This time, Dr. Fisher sat in the front passenger seat, and the agents boarded their SUV and trailed closely behind, the regal, looming hospital now just an eerie image in the rearview mirror.


	2. Chapter 2

Present

Rossi and Morgan crept down the well-lit and considerably more populated hallway than the area that Hotch and Prentiss had disappeared to; dodging the occasional bolted down bench or potted plant until the two men met up at the end of the passageway and tucked their weapons back into their holsters. Morgan was just clipping his service piece into his belt when he heard a shout. It sounded suspiciously like Emily's voice, and was coming from the same direction he had last seen her. Morgan frowned and grabbed Rossi's arm, causing the older man to still his movements. They listened intently for a moment, but all that surrounded them was a vacuum of silence.

"You heard that, right?" Morgan asked, straining his ears over the noise of Rossi's stuttered breathing.

"I didn't catch it."

Morgan made a shushing motion with his index finger, and sure enough, another cry of alarm from the East wing. The men broke out into a sprint, drawing their weapons once again.

"Emily?" Morgan called out as they approached the closed off area of the hospital.

"Derek! I need your help!" came Emily's voice, anxiety noticeable. He picked up the pace and scrambled around the corner leading to the hallway and felt his middle tighten at the sight before him. Hotch, lying on the floor flat on his back, dark head toward him, hands and feet splayed out lifelessly. Emily was on her knees next to the unit chief, one hand clutching Hotch's shoulder, the other touching the crook of his neck. Feeling for a pulse.

Morgan dropped down on the other side of his boss, eyes seizing the man's slackened face in shock. "What the hell happened?" he gasped, just as Rossi joined them. He already had his cell phone out and pressed against his ear.

Emily looked flustered enough, and Morgan felt slightly mean for barking out such a harsh query, but his expression remained intense as she met his gaze with dismay. "I—I don't know, Derek. We were clearing separate hallways and suddenly I heard him call my name. Some kid wearing a ski mask and a hoodie shoved me into the wall and ran off. Hotch just fell right into me and lost consciousness." She lowered herself close to the unit chief's face, ear to his mouth and nose. "He's barely breathing."

Morgan grabbed Hotch's chin and shook it gently, willing the man to snap out of it. "Hotch, man, come on! Wake up!" No response. His frantic, dark eyes met Emily's. "He didn't say anything before passing out? Did he seem hurt or sick?"

She shook her head. "No, he was fine until he had a run in with that kid!"

Rossi took two long strides and peered down the hallway in both directions. "Do you remember which way the kid went?"

Emily palmed her forehead. "Uh," she stammered nervously. "Left!"

He scrambled over the scenario to their teammate over the phone. "Reid, we need you _now_. Make sure you bring any available staff, because we're not even sure what happened. Hotch needs emergency medical attention ASAP. We're over in the East wing where all the construction is taking place. Reid we need you to hurry! Have JJ call the sheriff's office and have them sweep the grounds!"

Morgan straightened to his fullest height and backed up against the wall, peering into the room nearest to them, and just as he did so, his boot-clad toe kicked a small object on the ground and caused it to skitter away a few feet before it came to rest near the large, barred window. He followed its path, then knelt down and picked up the hypodermic needle, a newfound fear gripping his insides. "I think I know what happened to Hotch."

Emily and Dave glanced over at him desperately. "What? What is it?" Emily asked, her fingers once again underneath Hotch's chin.

Morgan held up the needle and pressed his mouth into a grim line. "I think he was drugged."

"Oh, God, that could be anything!" Emily gasped.

What felt like hours was actually a couple of minutes at most, and Reid came scrambling around the corner and to a screeching halt next to the group, shrewd gaze sweeping over the state of affairs with the practiced ease of a true professional wunderkind. "How did this happen?"

Morgan showed Reid the evidence collected from the ground just as sweat trickled from his temple. "We believe Hotch was injected with an unknown agent—I'm thinking a medication used to sedate combative psych patients."

"Reid, can you think of the most common drugs used in psych wards?" Rossi asked, his eyes firmly holding the younger man's, whose usual timid physical demeanor was now frowning, genius brain working furiously at possible causes.

"There's so many, it's impossible to think of all of them and accurately deduce which was injected, especially with the new medications that come available every year."

"Just the most common, Reid! Think!" Spencer's eyes narrowed and he wrinkled his forehead in nervous, rapid contemplation. Rossi leaned forward, bringing his ear to the unit chief's mouth. "God, he's not breathing!"

Emily placed her hand against Hotch's chest, real fear wrestling to the surface. "Reid!" Her eyes implored him to think, and then she turned her attention back to her boss, whose color had washed out to a sickly pallor.

"Uh, okay. Ativan, Xanax, Valium, um…Phenobarbital, Klonopin, Diazepam, Dilaudid…the list goes on. However, from what I remember after studying medication books and brochures is that all of these taken in excess depress respirations. We need to maintain Hotch's airway." Spencer fell to his knees next to Rossi and pushed the unit chief's chin upward, then felt for a pulse in the crook of his neck. "His pulse is faint and thready, but it's there. Emily," he said to the brunette directly. "Mouth to mouth resuscitation is the most effective method of intervention. Every few breaths check his pulse again, okay?"

Morgan paced anxiously, glancing down the darkened hallway leading to the area of the hospital currently in operation. "Where the hell is the staff? We called them five minutes ago!"

As Emily pinched Hotch's nose and forced her breath into the still man's mouth, Reid's swift brain scoured everything he knew about psychiatric meds, his own experiences with his mother, what he had seen, what he had studied, what was commonly used, what was no longer standard practice, and finally came to a confident enough conclusion.

"Based on Hotch's symptoms," he began, just as a couple of harried, disheveled doctors and two paramedics armed with a medical bag and a backboard rounded the corner. "Respiratory depression, loss of consciousness, weak pulse—I'd have to say it's an Ativan overdose."

Morgan regarded the young man with intense scrutiny. "Are you sure?"

Reid nodded, although his eyes were too wide to appear certain of his findings. "Yes—it has to be. Ativan is one of the most commonly used medications to subdue patients during a mental health crisis." He moved out of the way and fell back to his haunches as the paramedics and doctors took over.

"What have we got here?" a female paramedic asked as she pulled down the collar of Hotch's shirt, stuffed her stethoscope into her ears, and pressed the listening device into his upper chest.

Reid responded, sounding uncharacteristically confident and in control. "FBI Agent Hotchner, injected with an unknown medication, presumably Ativan. He's been out for approximately seven minutes with increasing signs of respiratory and cardiac distress. We've been performing mouth to mouth resuscitation and checking his pulse after every few breaths."

"Great job, ma'am. Let me take over for you." A male EMT touched Emily's shoulder and she moved out of his way so that he could place an ambu mask over her boss' mouth and nose.

Dr. Fisher was one of the responders, his face a mask of shock. Clearly he had spent more time in his office behind his big, luxurious desk polishing his plaques and APA accolades to be too familiar with an actual medical emergency, relying on his underlings to manage that kind of care, although the team was certainly aware that the man had to have done some sort of medical rotation to attain his role as psychiatrist. "There is no possible way a violent schizoaffective patient got his hands on a full IV dose of Ativan. My hospital is safer than a church and we keep our medication locked up and completely inaccessible to anyone other than staff. I refuse to believe it as negligence on our part."

Morgan held up the needle so the doctor had full view. "Believe it."

The female medic glanced up at her partner. "No response to external stimuli. I'm setting up an IV." She shuffled through her bag, ripping open sterile packages of tubing, gauze, and a ready-to-use liter of saline solution. "Definitely seems like an overdose."

"You'll want to give him Flumazenil STAT," Reid demanded, apprehension climbing up his throat and threatening to stifle the words before they came out. When the group stared back at him uncertainly, he continued. "It's the only way to reverse the effects of the Ativan. Trust me, it'll work."

"Administering Flumazenil can be dangerous, especially in conjunction with a benzodiazepine overdose."

"It's an accepted form of drug intervention used to reverse the side effects of the Ativan."

"How the hell do you know, kid?" The other doctor demanded, dallying off to the side and watching the scene with his fists pushed into his hips.

"I just know," Reid answered, unwavering.

"You want to stake that on Agent Hotchner's life?"

The male medic was busy watching Hotch's heartrate on their portable EKG monitor. "Look, fellas, we don't exactly have time to argue over this. If we want Agent Hotchner to remain alive for much longer, he needs to be transported to Sacred Heart _now _and that trip alone will take about fifteen minutes_._"

Before

A black SUV and a forest green Dodge Charger with the Spokane County Sheriff's Office emblem on its sides wound through the immaculately manicured grounds of Eastern State Hospital and made a left turn onto Pine Street, past transitional housing developments for their juveniles and geriatric population, following in line a procession of other police cars, lighting up the evening skies which revealed heavy clouds full of precipitation. They continued until making a right turn onto another shorter street, and Hotch noticed that the trees and shrubbery had become impossibly thicker as they got closer to their destination—just off the Southwest shore of West Medical Lake—until the sheriff double parked next to another of his unit. Red and blue lights were everywhere then, complete with harsh flood lights shining toward the swamp-like embankment.

Uniforms and suits were milling about, several on their cell phones, most armed with blue rubber gloves and grim faces. Hotch found an open spot to park right behind a white truck with flat black lettering on the back just underneath the tinted windows—'M.E.' The agents, minus JJ and Rossi who were still trying to get out of Spokane and back onto the highway, exited their vehicle and followed the activity down the shore. The agents walked past a patch of dense trees until coming through to the other side, revealing an open space, and the picturesque lake finally came into view. The sand under their feet was thick and grainy, and the aroma of freshly-rained earth filled their senses.

Camera flashes lit up the path before them and Hotch led them forward until he noticed the body in question. A woman, nude except for one sock, lying face down. The unit chief held up his badge to whoever was paying attention and he ducked underneath the caution tape, coming to a stop next to Sheriff Jenkins.

"We never used to see this kind of activity," Jenkins muttered, staring hard at the young woman's form, and then faced Hotch, expression schooled to impassivity. "There's a long-term juvenile detention home just across from the mental hospital, and even with that kind of element we still never really saw anything quite like this until about five months ago."

Morgan and Prentiss pilfered a couple of pairs of gloves from a box resting on top of a parked squad car and then squatted down next to the body. Reid wandered further down toward the water, which was about three feet from where the woman had been left, and peered left and right, sweeping his gaze along the shallows. Jenkins and Hotch both armed themselves with their own gloves, and a young deputy cleared his throat in his attempt to get his superior's attention.

"Agent Hotchner," Jenkins said, motioning at the man to his right. "This is Deputy Juan Ortiz. Deputy, these are the FBI agents from the Behavioral Analysis Unit."

Ortiz held out his hand, lips pressed somberly, and then shook Hotch's hand. "Good to have you guys out here. We could certainly use all the help we can get."

"Thank you, Deputy. I'm SSA Aaron Hotchner, and with me are agents Derek Morgan, Emily Prentiss, and Dr. Spencer Reid. We're unfortunately missing two others at the moment, but they should be arriving soon."

Ortiz nodded cordially at the group, and then took a deep breath. "Let me bring everyone up to speed. The victim is a 22-year-old female, who has been positively identified by Dr. Fisher as Jocelyn Russell, one of his patients. Former high school valedictorian from Clark County who had recently graduated from college. She'd suffered from a psychotic break shortly after returning to her parent's house. They took over as her power of attorney and had her committed after an unsuccessful suicide attempt. She had only been a resident at Eastern State for approximately two months showing vast improvements after treatment, but according to Dr. Fisher, her behavior had changed abruptly within the last week. A staff member noticed she was gone from her bed this morning at 8:00 a.m. and notified her superiors, but nothing was done about her disappearance until she had already been located."

"Who found her?" Morgan asked, pulling his eyes away from the girl's battered face. Her fair skin had become blotchy where the blood had settled and clotted. Finger-shaped bruises formed a grotesque kind of collar around her neck, and her sandy-blond hair was damp and stringy from the rain that had fallen earlier in the day.

Ortiz used his thumb to point behind his shoulder. "A fisherman discovered her a little less than an hour ago. This spot isn't as widely used because of the dense line of trees behind us, but he said he wanted to try out a new area he hadn't seen yet and had been planning on setting up a camp spot when he nearly tripped over her. Called it in short afterward."

Hotch let his eyes wander over the fisherman, immediately determining that he was not their suspect just in his posture alone. He knew as a tenured behavioral analyst that there were times when serial killers were quite convincing deceivers, and to the untrained layperson may appear to function normally, display seemingly genuine emotions. He knew what to look for, and this man was clearly despondent, head down as he spoke with law enforcement, hugging himself, refusing to look in the girl's direction. Killers often enjoyed the attention, loved to see how authorities conducted themselves at the scene they had created. The fisherman had a woeful, cheerless expression and slumped shoulders. No, he wasn't the suspect. He'd definitely be brought to the sheriff's office for questioning, but Hotch had already made up his mind on the guy.

"She has some prominent ligature marks around her neck," Prentiss remarked, then touched the skin around the girl's eyes, nose, and then mouth. "Lacerations and bruising on her face." She gently lifted the cold, lifeless lids, then scrutinized the woman's stiff fingers. "Petechiae in her eyes. Pretty typical of strangulation. It looks like this was what killed her, but we'll of course wait for the official autopsy report from the ME. I also noticed her fingernails have blood in them and are broken. She may have wounded her killer."

Jenkins nodded. "Yeah, it's exactly like the four other girls. Females, all in their 20's, all discovered around the West Medical Lake within the past six months. Sexually assaulted, then beaten with a blunt object, and then strangled to death. It was only about a week and a half ago since the last one, but that was farther north up the lake."

Reid rejoined the group, large rock in hand. "I think I found our murder weapon." He brought it closer so the others could see in the growing darkness. "There's some blond hair and bits of skin fragments still on it, as well as some blood." He handed it off to the sheriff and the agents crowded in closer to get a better look.

"Same hair color as our victim, same length," Jenkins mumbled, then turned around and motioned for Ortiz, who was talking at length with a passive, stone-faced woman in what looked like scrubs. Clearly the ME. "We'll drop this off with our medical examiner, Sydney Sullivan, for processing." He wandered over in their direction. "Syd, we've found our blunt object."

The woman rummaged around in her evidence bag and pulled out a bag large enough to hold the rock, then acknowledged the agents, just as fat raindrops began to fall.

Emily's phone chirped to life. "It's JJ," she announced, then pressed it to her ear. "What's up?"

JJ's voice was evident from the receiving end. "You want the good news, or the bad news?"

Emily's dark eyes met Hotch's, and just then a rumbling noise erupted from the skies above.

Thunder.


	3. Chapter 3

Present

After loading Hotch onto a waiting stretcher, Reid barked orders to the dumbstruck doctors that they immediately check their medication supply for the drug he'd insisted would reverse the side effects of the potential Ativan overdose, and if they had any, to make sure to have it available as they rounded the hallways to the front of the building where the ambulance was parked.

Fortunately for Hotch's blissfully unaware sake, there was a single capped syringe uncovered in the back of an emergency supply box, locked away and probably forgotten about when they'd acquired the thing. Reid uttered a brief oath under his breath as he took the syringe and narrowed his eyes to determine the dosage he hoped was harmless. "What's the safest amount we can give him?" he asked the medics with determined, wide eyes.

The male medic racked his brain, and then fumbled for his radio. "Central, this is 841," he said as his partner continued to monitor Hotch's decreasing heartrate.

A crackling noise sounded a few seconds later. "This is Central, go ahead."

"I've got a suspected Ativan overdose and IV Flumazenil available. Someone on hand is suggesting we administer this medication to the patient—we need your input."

There was a pause that lasted approximately ten seconds, enough to cause Reid to become aggravated by the sluggish response. But how could these people know it was an FBI agent on the other end who'd been attacked by an unknown assailant and close to death, not some run-of-the-mill junkie suffering the ill-effects of the potentially fatal next kick?

"841, you are go on the Flumazenil. Give your patient 0.2 milligrams every minute until symptoms abate."

"Copy, Central. 841 clear."

After hearing the interchange, Reid had pushed the seemingly innocuous dose into Hotch's IV before they had a chance to channel those particular instructions over to him via radio, not even pausing to check the expiration date. _Does that really matter at this point? _he'd reasoned with himself. "All right, it's in. Let's get going."

There had been somewhat of a brief verbal spat between Emily and Reid over who took the fifteen minute ride to Sacred Heart with Hotch, but in the end Rossi had reasoned with the raven-haired woman that the young man had the most knowledge when it came to psychiatric medications and treatment and would be of better use if the need arose. She'd assented and climbed into their rented SUV before he'd said another word. Reid was already boarded into the back of the ambulance anyway, and the vehicle was lit up and splitting the quiet night with its piercing siren as it raced away.

As soon as the doors were closed, the two were speeding off, just in time to see Derek and JJ standing together at the front entrance. Emily cursed quietly—she'd forgotten to wait for the two—and felt a twinge of guilt. But they were already past Fir Street and taking a sharp left onto Spruce when she'd realized her error. It was too late to turn back now.

"What are we going to do about this, Dave?" Emily asked, hanging for dear life onto the handle above the passenger side door as he followed closely behind the speeding ambulance.

"We'll discuss that when we get there. Right now I'm trying not to kill us."

As they approached the bridge separating the Medical Lake community from the open highway toward Spokane, the vehicle before them suddenly swerved sharply to the left, and Rossi immediately recognized the problem. A young man with a dark hooded sweatshirt had bolted out in front of the shrieking ambulance, and the only parts of him that were actually visible were his white face and his bare feet. Rossi took a similar route in dodging the kid, but slowed enough to study him, even with the darkness shrouding him into near obscurity.

Emily gasped, "It's him! That's the guy who attacked Hotch!"

Rossi grabbed his cell phone and immediately dialed the first number on his recent calls list. JJ answered after one ring. "JJ, you and Derek need to get over to the 4th street bridge ASAP! Our suspect ran right out in front of the medics, and they nearly took him out! Emily confirmed it's the kid who attacked Hotch. I think he may be suicidal. Get over here as quickly as possible!"

"All right, Dave, we're on it!" she said, sounding rushed, as if she had already broke into a jog. They hung up and he glanced in his rearview and stared at the shrinking figure who stood motionless in the middle of the road at the bridge's entrance before pressing on the accelerator of the SUV and catching up with the EMTs.

Meanwhile, Reid sat off to the side pressed against the wall of the back of the ambulance, fully understanding why it was so cumbersome for people to ride along with patients unless they were absolutely necessary. It was a tight squeeze to begin with, but the female medic—as thin and petite as she was anyway—had to amble herself around the additional obstacle and somehow maintain her concentration. She obviously had stalwart control—she would need it, as she appeared completely undeterred by the situation.

She was sent crashing into the left and nearly took Reid out with a well-aimed elbow to the face if he hadn't have moved out of the way. The woman yelped as she landed, instantly thrusting out a gloved hand to hold the stretcher in place, but to her benefit, Hotch was strapped in and probably safer than she was.

"What the hell, Cam!"

"Some kid just ran in front of our rig! Looks like he's got a death wise, because he's in all black clothes!" The medic responded. "You okay back there, Piper? Doc?"

She pushed herself up, grabbed her stethoscope from the floor, and then wrapped it once again around her neck. "Yeah, I'm fine." She turned back to Hotch and noticed the monitors had dropped quickly to a zero before a soft beeping noise started to chirp at them. "Oh, God!"

"What?" Cam shouted from the front. Reid's middle seized in terror at the solid green line of the portable unit, an icy dread freezing him into a numbed state of disbelief. His eyes dropped to Hotch's slackened face, shrouded by the mask which was still busily running a steady course of oxygen to the man's deprived lungs.

"He's flatlined!"

"Shit!"

Chaos ensued as Piper scrambled to charge up the defibrillator. Hotch's nice blue dress shirt—opened to his sternum politely by the medics to protect the integrity of garment—was ripped apart the rest of the way, buttons sent flying, to reveal the man's entire torso, now in full view.

Reid's gaze followed the wires from the electrodes taped to Hotch's chest and abdomen, to the floor, and just as she smeared lubricating jelly onto the paddles, charged and ready to send 100 joules of electricity instantly to the man's heart, he realized the reason for the code. "Whoa, whoa! Hang on!" he barked, scrambling from his spot to pick up the wire dangling uselessly off the side of the stretcher. Piper reared back, forcing away the device before she inadvertently zapped the young doctor as he put himself in between her and Hotch.

"What are you doing?"

Reid held up the wire. "It's unplugged!" He reconnected the unit to the electrodes, and the green line once again revealed a heartrate, albeit too lethargic for comfort.

"Oh, my God," Piper muttered, shuttering her eyes and replacing the defibrillator paddles to their station. "Thanks, kid."

Reid ignored her, frowning instead at the monitor. "His pulse ox, look! It's down to 85!"

The woman raked her knuckles into Hotch's chest—standard rousing tactic—then flashed her penlight into his eyes. "He's hypoxic."

"When was his last dose of the Flumazenil?" Cam called to his partner.

"About two minutes ago." She pushed another 0.2 milligrams into the IV line. "Another dose is in."

"Set him up for intubation," Cam responded, speeding almost recklessly down the highway now that they were clear of the small town that surrounded the lake.

Reid shook his head. "Give the medication a chance to work!"

"He could vomit and aspirate and we have to protect his airway! I'm sorry, I know you're trying to help here, but let us do our jobs. Please, stay out of the way!"

Before

"What's the bad news?" Emily asked, her concern palpable. JJ placed a palm over her ear when a heavy clap of thunder erupted overhead. Rossi was pacing impatiently in the lobby of the automotive repair place they'd found themselves in after their tire had blown out _on the highway_ with moderately heavy traffic. Thankfully JJ hadn't completely lost control of the SUV as it took a hard right toward the side of the road and nearly took a nose dive down into the ditch, seeing as only certain sections of the roads on the west coast were protected by guard rails. Rossi had been sipping a cup of coffee and had dumped its contents down his shirt. Another thanks she sent up—it'd been sitting for an hour in the cup holder and fortunately wasn't piping hot.

They'd been a few cars behind the rest, so once JJ had taken a deep breath to calm her frazzled nerves and had given Dave a chance to hop out and take a look at the damage—of himself and the offending tire—she'd called Hotch and informed him of their situation. He was already pretty far away and although he insisted on turning around and coming back to help, she told him to keep going. They'd catch up.

That had been a few hours ago.

JJ and Rossi were _still _waiting. Their blown tire had a few nails imbedded in it and wasn't fixable, and would normally have been easy to replace, but for whatever reason, they did not have what they needed in stock. The agents were forced to wait until one of their employees from another location drove out and brought them the replacement part.

And then came the downpour. The man who was driving over from the other location was stuck in traffic, caused by a weather-related collision. Standing water and speeding cars—never a good combination.

JJ glanced up at the looming dark clouds. "We have to wait for someone to bring us the tire we need because apparently our SUV has the most popular tires in the entire east side of Washington state. They're clean out of them. Lucky us."

Emily sighed, creating static on the receiving end. "I'm sorry to hear that. Did they give you an ETA?"

"It's impossible to say with this freak thunderstorm. I guess there's a big wreck on Highway 902, so we could be joining you guys by the time you wake up in the morning. Who knows."

"So, what's the good news?"

"There is none."

"Oh." Emily laughed a little. "Well, let us know when you finally head out."

JJ ducked inside, avoiding the deluge of rain that poured in buckets from the sky, just as a bolt of lightning flashed, dallying across the inky horizon. She joined Rossi at the window as he studied the raindrops hitting the pavement. It would be a long night.

The ME Sullivan and her forensic techs were careful in the way they processed the scene, and Hotch wasn't sure if it was because they had the 'big wigs' in town and wanted to make sure they impressed them, or if she really was this obsessively anal retentive with the way she conducted her work. He admired the tedious care the team paid to each piece of potential evidence, treating every blade of grass with special attention, cutting out section after section to collect any possible sample. Something to lead to their unsub.

Hotch instructed the team to split off to go in different directions—to study the area and what drew the unsub to this location. What brought him to this lake over and over? Why did he choose to leave his victim on the bank of the lake instead of hiding her in the water? And better yet, why did he insist on focusing his attention on the community of psychiatric patients? Was he a patient himself, or did he target them because of his affinity for West Medical Lake?

He and Prentiss scoured the south end of the lake just as Jocelyn Russell's figure was finally zipped up in the black body bag and loaded onto a stretcher and buckled in. Now that the crime scene was pretty much wrapped up, the various law enforcement personnel had been given leave of their posts, which cleared out a spot for the ME so that the back doors could be thrust open. The woman's body was gently pushed into the awaiting vehicle, then shut inside. Sullivan got in with one of her techs and solemnly drove away, without any of the splendor of lights and sirens.

Hotch decided three hours of sifting through potential evidence was plenty for his unit, so he finally relented and called for Morgan and Reid to rejoin him and Prentiss. They would finally check into their hotel, maybe sleep a few hours, and then tomorrow head on over to the sheriff's office to discuss the case in more depth, and with hope, figure out what made the unsub tick, why he'd chosen the four women—_five, _actually. Five women, all young, all undergoing treatment for mental health crises, all beaten, raped, and strangled.

Jenkins and Ortiz were leading the investigation, so the two of them had left a good two hours prior to meet with the Russell family, being that they lived a considerable distance away in Battleground, a small spot next to the larger area of Vancouver. It'd take them about five and half hours to get there, and although they _could have _asked for someone from the Battleground Police Department to assist them in breaking the awful news to the girl's parents, the two men had insisted. Hotch did not envy the drive they'd have to endure, especially knowing how the inevitable conversation would go. Even being a seasoned federal agent with plenty of years behind him never prepared him for the emotional anguish a family underwent after learning of a loved one's death. Over time, he had managed to dissociate and find ways to distract himself, but it was never easy, one of the least favorite things to do when working for a criminal justice agency.

"Prentiss," Hotch called to his left, and then turned. "Do you know if Dr. Fisher is still here?"

She sidled up next to her superior. "No, he left about twenty minutes ago."

Hotch sighed, exhausted. There was still so much more to do before he could attempt to get some sleep. "We know where he went?"

Emily raked her teeth over her lip. "Back to the hospital, I think. I remember hearing him say he had to finish some paperwork."

Hotch nodded, characteristic frown sinking into place. They'd need to get his statement, not to mention the staff and patients. That's where they would begin their painstaking forensic profiling, and it only made sense. "Let's head back over to the hospital. Call Morgan and Reid, will you?" The BAU lead watched the lightning dance across the sky and he flinched slightly, remembering he should definitely take into consideration the weather dangers and get the hell away from all of these tall trees.

Just as he turned to head back to the SUV, he felt the hairs on the back of his neck raise. He halted, then let his eyes rove around the dark banks of the lake, and felt apprehension close in on him like a cloak. About fifty yards away stood a figure dressed in black. He watched carefully, until he was forced to blink. When he opened his eyes again, the person was gone.


	4. Chapter 4

Present

Reid finally acquiesced to Piper, the female medic, and pushed himself away, careful to monitor his boss' movements for any sign of life. Any way to ward off having a tube shoved down his throat, because it was certainly not something he wished to witness happen to anyone—especially when the patient was Aaron Hotchner, who was about as impervious as an FBI unit leader should be. He was an unstoppable force to be reckoned with, and at first glance people would typically concede to him when interrogated or questioned. He had a knack for getting suspects to confess when put under that kind of pressure, sometimes with just a glance. To Reid, Hotch normally seemed resilient. It was quite a shock to the system to see him so—frail.

"Piper, what are his sats?" Cam called from the front of the rig. Reid peeked around the seat and noticed they were finally approaching the city limits, as the moderately sized Spokane rose up from the horizon.

"His pulse ox is down to 82," she answered, squeezing the ambu bag, allowing her apprehension to show through. Her green eyes swept in Reid's direction and she cast him a sympathetic smile. "I know you don't want your boss to have to suffer through something as traumatic as intubation, but we don't have a choice anymore. Sorry kid."

She finally grabbed a package from the side and tore it open, revealing the mess of tubing that would be fed down Hotch's trachea if the Flumazenil didn't kick in. Reid's insides clenched in dread as insecurity flooded his mind—what if he was wrong about the Ativan? What if Hotch had been injected with something completely unrelated and more dangerous? Something that reacted with the medication that he'd administered by his own hand? How could he live with himself if he had inadvertently hurt Hotch in the process of trying to help him? How many doses had he and the medics pushed into his IV before they'd decided to intubate?

Reid clawed his fingers over his scalp and held his head, willing the man to come to. _Please, Hotch, wake up. Please. _How was he going to face his colleagues if he was wrong? Or worse yet, break the awful news to Haley and Jack? And Strauss? Good God that already sounded horrible. At that moment, Reid all of a sudden regretted speaking up and suggesting any meds, just for the potential risks involved.

He removed his hands when he heard Hotch's lethargic pulse unexpectedly double its speed and his gaze snapped upward, recognizing the shift in the man's heartrate as something encouraging. _Finally._ Reid leaned forward in anticipation.

Piper had a speculum poised above Hotch's mouth and tubing in the other hand, but she must have noticed the change as well, because she bent down until she was about an inch from his face. "Agent Hotchner? Sir?"

Reid and the medic jumped back in surprise when Hotch burst from his prostrate position on the stretcher until he was half-sitting, tugged his arms from the straps holding him in firmly, and pushed the equipment away from his face. His eyes were wide and anxious, pupils dilated until the irises almost appeared completely black. Hotch's gaze was fixed with a thousand yard stare, breathing shallowly for a few heartbeats before Piper and Reid came to their senses.

Reid touched his shoulder, trembling slightly. He was certainly not expecting a reaction like _that._ "Hotch?"

The man wavered slightly as he turned to look at Reid, almost like he was trying to fight for control in a state of extreme drunkenness. Hotch's verbal responses were uncharacteristic as he slurred from a mouth that refused to move properly. "Wh-what happened?"

Piper sighed in relief after dropping her chin and closing her eyes, setting the intubation kit off to the side. "You can thank your young colleague, here. He sure saved your ass." She grabbed her stethoscope and pressed against his chest and listened for a moment, then measured his blood pressure, nodding after obtaining improving results.

Reid grinned at his boss, despite the obvious confusion Hotch displayed. Piper adjusted the stretcher so that he could sit upright and rest himself against the soft surface. His reflexes were slow to respond just like his interactions, so she ended up having to push him back so that he was forced to lower down. "Everything will be all right now."

Hotch's color began returning as a flush spread across his cheekbones and on the tips of his ears. Piper wrapped a nasal cannula around his face and pressed the prongs into his nostrils, but the man hardly appeared to notice, instead intense shivers wracked his upper body, as if he were in the middle of a frigid snowstorm. Reid frowned at him, still feeling the tendrils of fear grasp his insides. "Are you okay, Hotch?"

Hotch's hand clumsily moved to touch his middle and he grimaced, a tendon jumping in his jaw as he clenched his teeth. "Yeah," he muttered, but didn't look very certain. In fact, the newfound discomfort appeared to be brought on by an untimely bout of nausea. Reid swallowed nervously. He didn't do well with that sort of thing.

Piper patted his arm crowded by the IV, then plopped a rose pink emesis basin in his lap. "Flumazenil can cause a bit of stomach upset. Just try to aim here, okay buddy?"

Cam pulled into the ambulance bay of Sacred Heart Medical Center. "We're here," he announced and then came to an abrupt stop. The medic swiveled in his seat, no longer wearing a mask of troubled uncertainty. "I hear you talking, Agent Hotchner. That's always a good sign." He hopped out of the rig just as the doors thrust open and a group of doctors were revealed, two pulling at the base of the stretcher. With perfect timing, Emily and Rossi screeched to halt within a few feet of the group now guiding Hotch toward the emergency room. Reid jumped from the ambulance and turned to follow them inside, but Piper grabbed his forearm, stopping him.

"Hey, kid," she said, and he gave her a small, bashful smile. She patted him amicably. "Nice call on the Ativan overdose."

The grin that broke out on his face was a genuine one. "Thanks."

* * *

JJ was well accustomed to the SUV she'd rented, the same death trap that had lost traction over train tracks running across the busy highway and nearly sent her and Rossi sailing down into the irrigation ditch. One brand new tire later and the thing was driving like a dream, finally behaving as it should. She scrambled behind the wheel, scarcely giving Morgan enough time to close the passenger side door before peeling off with haste. They drove silently through the dark streets until they approached the two-lane 4th street bridge, which was now lit up once again with the familiar flashing of tactical lights atop a whole mess of squad cars, a fire truck, and an ambulance.

She came to a stop right at the threshold of the bridge, stare holding onto the figure in all black balancing precariously on the wooden railing. His head was covered by a hood, but the ski mask that Emily had spoken of was now stuffed into the kid's back pocket. He was barefoot, and the skin not covered by his dark clothing shone white in the beams of the headlights of the SUV and numerous other police vehicles.

JJ and Derek tiptoed quietly until they were about ten feet from the young man, and could now see that he was edgy and wound tight. He glanced over his shoulder at the approaching agents and the law enforcement that took their cue and followed suit. "Stay away from me!" he shrieked.

"Okay, okay," Derek said, making sure to show the kid his hands were free from weapons and outstretched harmlessly. He lowered his tone enough to show a compassionate friendliness, forcing himself to quit picturing Hotch's body lying completely lifeless on the ground, stop imagining what could be happening to his boss, his _friend_ at that very moment. Everything in him screamed to throw up his hands and be done with this kid, but he put his nose to the grindstone and got to work. "I'm just here to help you."

"Nobody can help me, man." Hughes chuckled. "I'm beyond help!"

JJ let her palms brush the outsides of her thighs nervously. "Can I call you Robert?"

"Call me whatever the fuck you want, bitch."

She grimaced inwardly at the revolting verbiage, but internalized her reaction to keep her face calm. It was important in establishing communication with someone undergoing a severe mental collapse to show absolutely no hostility, no physical threat. "Okay, I will. Robert, you are too important to go out this way. There are people who love you out there, wherever they are."

Hughes turned and looked at her with a coldness in his eyes that immobilized her into silence. "I have no one, and your words mean nothing."

Derek must have noticed that the kid's attitude had changed, because a fraction of a second passed after Hughes' foot rose into the air, he ran the rest of the distance separating him and the young man, then grabbed a handful of his sweatshirt. "You are not going _anywhere_, you little prick!"

Hughes dangled momentarily, his limbs falling open and loose, until he realized Derek had him by the scruff and was not letting go or losing his grip. He wriggled fiercely then, but a group of hands pulled him up and back to the paved bridge and to safety. "No," he moaned as his hands were thrust behind him and his wrists were joined together by handcuffs. He thrashed, and then reared his head back only to bring it violently back to the ground. He was intentionally trying to injure himself.

JJ placed her palm against Hughes' forehead to keep him from moving until a medic came to the rescue armed with a needle—administering the exact same calming agent used on their unit chief only moments before.

"Take him to Sacred Heart," JJ ordered after Hughes quit screaming and squirming. Once he was neutralized, one of the steel cuffs was unlocked until he was on a stretcher and secured to the bed, effectively restrained.

"All right, we'll see you there."

* * *

Inside the hectic ER, Emily pushed her way through the crowd and got a quick glimpse of the unit chief, whose dark head was bent forward as he retched down the front of himself before she was strong-armed by an unyielding nurse and the door was swung closed. She wanted to put up a fight, protest that he should have someone to sit with him, but she understood that she needed to allow the medical personnel space to move around in case it was necessary. She wouldn't be able to look at herself if she caused him undue harm by getting in the way. But dammit, she almost couldn't resist the urge to barge in and demand her presence be permitted. Emily didn't allow the irritation to grow, though, because Hotch was _sitting up_ despite the vomiting, and from what she saw outside the hospital, his eyes were open. That was a far cry from the last moment she had seen him back at Eastern State, unconscious, not even _breathing._

Rossi had his hands on his hips as he stood at her side, and both grimaced at the sound of Hotch heaving up whatever food he'd consumed earlier in the day. The man had hardly eaten much to begin with, only just offering a minimal amount of time during the investigation to force down a sandwich from one of the delis inside a nearby grocery store—like so many other cases before that—to take care of his own basic needs.

Reid discovered them, a phone pressed to his ear. "He's in the exam room right now. Dave and Emily are standing on the outside. We'll let you know if anything changes before you get here." He pushed at the screen on his phone and let the device slip into his pants pocket.

"Did they find the kid?" Dave asked, shifting his weight from one foot to the next.

Reid raised his eyebrows and sighed. "Actually, they did. He was teetering on the edge of the bridge, about to take a dive into the shallow part of the river near the bank—about three feet of water, but Derek grabbed him before he fell. We're talking about a 52 foot drop straight down with nothing but rocks to greet him at the bottom. Even if he survived the fall, his injuries would be devastating. As soon as they got handcuffs on him and double locked for protection, JJ told the medics to bring him to this hospital after they got the okay to place him on a mental health hold."

Emily nodded, thankful that Robert Hughes was alive, if only to answer a couple of important questions she had among so many others—why was he running and why did he attack Hotch?

The door to Hotch's room pushed open and the three stood motionless, captivated—and a nurse wound her way around and stood in front of the agents, then turned her attention to Emily. The brunette regarded the nurse—'Lydia' on her nametag—somewhat surprised by the attention. "Are you Emily?"

The female agent turned uncertainly and looked at Reid and Rossi, but they merely shrugged their responses. "Yes," she said hesitantly. "I'm Emily Prentiss. I work with Agent Hotchner—I'm part of his unit. Who's asking?"

Lydia smiled gently. "He's inquired on your wellbeing numerous times, convinced you're in some kind of danger. In order to get him to relax, we figured it couldn't hurt to bring you in to sit with him."

Rossi stepped forward before the nurse could lead Emily away. "Is he going to be all right?"

Lydia addressed him with the seasoned patience of someone that had been in her career for at least a couple decades. "It's a little bit premature to give you any definite answers, but what I can say is that he's doing remarkably, despite the unfortunate side effects of the Flumazenil. He's pretty out of it, but cognitive and properly oriented."

"What side effects are we talking about?"

Reid answered for her, eagerly spilling forth facts from his encyclopedia-like brain, "Fatigue, muscle aches, pain and burning at the injection site, tremors, sweating, flushing, dizziness, unusual crying episodes or stupor, altered vision, and possibly hyperacusis—"

Lydia interrupted him, giving him a funny look. "All of which we will observe closely overnight. From what the medics told me, he took quite a few doses."

Emily frowned, hugging her arms against her chest. "Meaning?"

"Meaning all of the side effects your friend just mentioned will be that much more apparent. It should wear off after a few hours, but we just want to be sure to monitor his vitals for a while until then."

"He's not going to like that," Rossi mumbled, sighing. Under normal circumstances his friend's solemn attitude could grate on him after a while. But at least he'd be alive to grumble about it later. He never thought he'd see the day that he was thankful to be able to see Hotch's brooding, stubborn face and willing to listen to him gripe about being corralled into staying in a hospital longer than necessary.

Lydia nodded at Reid. "Good thing he had you around, kiddo."

"Oh," the younger man said timidly, shuffling his feet. "I did what any one of us would do for him."

"Spencer," Emily quipped. "Quit with the humble pie routine already." She squeezed his shoulder, cast a friendly grin his direction, moved past them toward the room. "I'll be back in a few minutes."

The nurse chuckled good-naturedly. "No, really, it was your quick thinking and your diagnosis that saved his life." She narrowed her eyes in curiosity. "You ever considered practicing medicine?"

* * *

Before

Hotch sounded his alarm to anyone within earshot, and then he and Prentiss took off in a run to board the SUV and sped off to cross over to the other side of the lake. They cleared the small trundle bridge that kept the Medical Lake community isolated from the quiet residential neighborhoods on the other side, but upon climbing out of the vehicle, they noticed that the officers who'd been close enough to hear Hotch's radio broadcast and respond quickly were shining their flashlights around the grassy banks and beyond, clearly unable to locate the mysterious individual and stupefied by the possibility of someone escaping so effectively.

"Anything?" he asked one of the deputies, and the man grimaced and shook his head. "Dammit." Hotch couldn't wrap his head around the strangeness of the past half hour—it had to be a person, because despite the distance between them, he could make out the basic structure of a face and hands. It was all anatomically correct. He wasn't hallucinating the image, even after nearly a day without a wink of sleep. But after searching for the last thirty minutes with nothing to show for it, he was beginning to doubt if there had been anything at all.

Emily let her eyes sweep the gently lapping water, briefly enjoying the hushed noises of the wildlife that called this place home, and then squinted at her boss. He was frowning in determination, swinging his gaze a full 360 degrees before noticing her scrutiny. "Are you sure you saw a person in the distance?" she asked, knowing his reply without needing to hear it.

Hotch shot her a look like a blow. "I wouldn't call for this kind of search if I wasn't sure, Prentiss."

She merely raised her thin eyebrows at him and he flattened his irritable expression to one of impassiveness. "What do you want to do?"

"Let's go," he said doggedly. He turned on his heels and trudged back the SUV, forcing Emily to switch her quick pace to a jog to keep up.

"Where are we going? To the hospital?"

He nodded. "We'll have the sheriff's office continue the search around the lake. I know what I saw, and he or she has to be around here somewhere."

* * *

Dr. Fisher's office was the crisp, clean space that the unit was expecting when they'd sauntered into the room. The door was embellished with an official-looking gold-plated sign showing off his prestige—as if anyone within 100 miles of the place could forget his position at the hospital—and even the knob was a braggadocio of his status. The large desk and miscellaneous furniture and trinkets _did _give off an aura of comfort, but it was very clear to the agents that this man thought very highly of himself, just a hint of grandiosity and self-importance in his worldly possessions alone. Quite standard behavior for a true narcissist.

"I see your colleagues have yet to find their way here," the man said, taking a seat in his high-backed leather chair, pushing against it slightly to lean comfortably. He had a perfectly blank expression on his face, but his ice-blue eyes twinkled.

Emily pressed her lips together in a vain attempt to smile, since she knew the men around her—with the exception of Reid—rarely allowed themselves to show any sort of warmth for those they did not know. There _was _something about Dr. Fisher that made her leery of his true intentions. He seemed to stare piercingly, like he was dissecting her, trying to strip away her professional façade and interpret every move she made. Had she been alone, she probably would have avoided much contact with him. She had a feeling any kind of conversation would feel like a probe into her personal life, and she was sure this was how other people felt around her and her group of colleagues. All profilers, all analyzers of the human conditions, trained astutely to do just as Fisher did—without the lavish setting and paycheck.

"Unfortunately no," she said, sharing a glance with Hotch, who was wearing the irrepressible, serious frown. "But JJ did say about five minutes ago they're finally back on the road."

Derek checked his watch and laughed quietly. "And in record timing. It's only almost midnight."

Dr. Fisher nodded once, grinning. "That's small town life for you, unlike the hustle and bustle that you are used to on the East coast, I'm afraid. People around here are rarely in a hurry."

Hotch was not interested in small talk. "Let's talk about Jocelyn Russell—I want to know about her stay here."

"What would you like to know, specifically?"

"What was her official diagnosis? We've heard that she had a psychotic break shortly after graduating from college and was suicidal, but what prompted her prolonged stay?" Reid asked.

"Other than the pleasure of her accommodations?" Fisher replied, and Emily resisted the strong urge to roll her dark brown eyes. "No, in all seriousness, Miss Russell suffered from bipolar psychosis, and her return from school prompted very severe depression. Her manic symptoms ranged from hypersexuality and overspending to exaggerated fights with her closest loved ones. She cheated on her boyfriend, then broke up with him just before attempting to kill herself. Here at Eastern State, we felt she required immediate attention to her suicidal ideation, medication therapy, and daily sessions with a psychiatrist."

"What kind of medication was she taking?" Morgan asked.

"I prescribed her Seroquel, which she took three times a day. After a couple weeks, she appeared to be on an upswing."

"Was she displaying unusual behavior just before her death? Anything notable?"

"This last week, she began reverting back to her earlier period of psychosis." Dr. Fisher remained stoic, but his lips pursed, clearly upset but trying to conceal the emotion. "Miss Russell once again started unnecessary arguments with patients and staff, refused to eat, and shut down during her therapy sessions. She became fearful that someone was watching her and planned to kill her. I didn't pay any heed to this behavior, assuming it was merely paranoid delusions, and that I'd have to adjust her medication. Then she disappeared until her body was found."

"She thought someone was trying to kill her?" Reid probed, mouth open in surprise. He looked at the agents, whose expressions matched his own. Jocelyn Russell _knew _she was going to die.


	5. Chapter 5

Present

Emily crept into the dimmed exam room and noticed immediately that the room was divided by a large blue-green curtain—the side closest to the door was occupied by a man in his mid-60's, gown thrown over his crumpled body, EKG leads taped to several places on the skin revealed by the fabric that had been pulled down. He was alone and wore a look of abject misery.

Emily's eyes scanned the space not closed off by the curtain and saw that a chair sat against the wall and out of the way, and instantly she recognized the heap of clothing resting in a plastic bag which had been piled untidily on the hard seat, crumpled and scissored apart, familiar dress shoes on top. Hotch's standard professional attire—dark slacks, starched button-down, plain white undershirt. The melody of beeping monitors grew louder as she rounded the curtain, and she stopped short at the foot of Hotch's bed.

A nurse was busily scribbling on a medical chart, and she glanced up cautiously until Emily tilted her lips into a tight, cordial smile—the one she reserved for unfamiliar authority figures or the general nondescript professional. The woman grinned back kindly and touched Hotch on the shoulder before moving out of the way toward the exit, but first dropping the metal board revealing his vitals into a plastic holder at the end of the bed.

Emily's eyes fell away from the nurse and to the man's face, studying him anxiously. His tousled, dark head was turned toward the wall and away from his visitor, slick with sweat, plastering the black strands to the skin of his brow. He lay slightly curled onto his side, eyes open to slits, emesis basin still resting on his pillow close by his head. His complexion was waxy, but there was still a pinched redness present on either side of his nose. The rosy color had also spread across the expanse of his chest. It almost looked as if he'd been out in the sun or had gone on a particularly long jog. Emily watched him breathe a moment, which was being assisted by a nasal cannula in favor of an oxygen mask, and she then put herself in motion by grabbing the arm of the chair still against the wall and pulling it as quietly as possible toward the side of the bed he was facing.

"Emily?" he mumbled, shifting slightly to his back. "You're okay?"

She grinned amiably, leaning in close enough to see for himself that she was indeed all right. "Don't worry, Hotch. I'm fine."

"You were pushed, weren't you?" Hotch struggled up to an elbow, and Emily noticed how glassy his eyes looked. She knew that this was a side effect of the mammoth volume of counteracting medicine he'd been given, but she hadn't seen him this out of it in the entire time she had known him, and considering the depravity of cases, emotional turmoil, getting nearly blown to bits in the New York attacks—it was hard to believe that a mere needle stick and the resulting Flumazenil had rendered the irrepressible man so soundly beaten.

"Yes, I was pushed," Emily responded. "But I'm not hurt."

This seemed to relieve the man of his anxiety, and he drifted back down, suddenly appearing a bit queasy. "Good."

Emily fidgeted with her fingernails a moment, and then glanced up at her boss, who was swallowing uncomfortably and giving the ceiling tiles a long, hard look. "You need anything, Hotch? Something to drink?"

Hotch turned and responded softly. "Water, if you don't mind."

Grateful to have something to do besides sit and stare, she moved to the corner where a small sink was and grabbed a paper cup, filling it halfway and then handed it off to him. He took a few cautious sips, then set it down, flashing her a small, appreciative smile. She patted his forearm warmly, and then returned to her seat. It wasn't but a minute later, Hotch shoved the blanket covering his body haphazardly aside and attempted to swing his legs over to the ground, but she was prepared, standing firmly at the bed and blocking his escape.

"I don't think so, Sir. The nurse said you need to be monitored." She put a firm hand on his sinewy shoulder and easily pushed him back onto the bed, but he was beginning to look a little frantic. She could feel him trembling slightly under her touch. "Hotch, what's wrong?" she asked, worry creasing her forehead.

"Em," he started, perspiration beginning to bead at his temples. His gaze swung desperately from his lap to the table, until she realized what he was searching for—the emesis basin—and she grabbed it from his pillow. Too late. He ended up merely tilting forward much like he had when he was wheeled through the ambulance bay, vomiting the tiny amount of water he had ingested moments earlier down the front of himself, and even when nothing came up, he continued to dry heave and cough. Emily felt completely helpless, resorted to using the same hand she'd restrained him with to rub his back until the puking subsided.

"Oh, Hotch," she muttered in sympathy, and then let her fingers rest against the nape of his neck. Emily finally stepped away after a lengthy, silent moment of watching his pained grimace, rummaged around the room until she found a drawer full of hospital grade cloths of varying sizes, and finally selected one. She wet it in the sink, and then handed it to the man who was now palming his face in misery. He glimpsed up at her, took the cloth and grimly nodded his thanks. He pressed it to his sweat-slick skin, taking a deep sigh, finally regarded her.

"Sorry you had to see that," he mumbled, lying back against the bed looking embarrassed.

Emily made a tsking noise and shook her head in exasperation. "Sir, trust me, I've seen and done far worse."

* * *

Derek and JJ stood outside another hospital room, this one in a quieter location of the ER, normally reserved for patients requiring quarantine. There wasn't an available bed for Hughes to be stashed in psych, so for now he was parked in the corner room a couple hallways away from his victim. The agents quietly observed the subdued young man through the window. Hughes was in four-point restraints and connected to all sorts of different monitors, but they knew he was potentially capable of extreme violence, even in such a controlled state.

Morgan shook his head finally and un-crossed his arms. "I still can't believe this kid nearly killed Hotch."

JJ's answering grin was relieved. "Thanks to Reid, he didn't. It was a close call, though." She let the smile grow and nudged him with her elbow. "That was quite a catch you made, saving Hughes' from committing suicide."

Derek shrugged. "I could sense his intention the second I saw him on the edge of the bridge. And I was certainly not going to let that little prick take a nosedive into a creek full of rocks without knowing if he was responsible for the murders of five innocent women."

"He certainly acted like he was running from something serious."

The door to Hughes' room swung open and a familiar white coat stepped out with a peculiar smile— Fisher. JJ shot Derek a quick glance before she shook the man's hand. Her male counterpart was knitting his brows warily, instantly on guard and although she wanted to assume he was being discourteous and paranoid because of their experiences—hell, it was hard _not _to question everybody's motive when even the most average Joe could be a vicious killer—she understood the knee-jerk suspicion. There was something eerie about Dr. Fisher, something untrustworthy, reptilian even. "Dr. Fisher," she said warmly, and finally Derek nodded, lifting his lips into a tight, genial half-grin. "We have some questions about Mr. Hughes that maybe you can answer since he's incapacitated at the moment."

Fisher motioned at a bench resting against the opposite wall and the three sat down. "What would you like to know, Agent Jareau?"

JJ curled a stray blond tress behind her ear. "What happened tonight?"

The doctor calmly weaved his fingers together and placed them in his lap. "Well, Robert must have slipped out of his dorm when one of the staff wasn't watching and somehow broke into the IV meds at the nurse's station. I'm not entirely sure how he did that, but he has been known to wander away, has even attempted to escape our facility a couple times. We thought we had his outbursts under better control, but as we can see tonight, that is still a problem."

Derek shook his head, then gazed forward to the glass pane interweaved with metal diamond-shaped chain links. There was a tiny bit of movement from the bed, and he felt a surge of enthusiasm at the prospect of interviewing the kid, despite his mental state. "How long has Hughes been suicidal?"

"Oh," Fisher replied, his voice detached but friendly. "Robert has been struggling with that kind of ideation since he came to Eastern State, I'm afraid to say. It's one of the reasons his parents decided to send him here."

JJ's eyes followed Derek's and she focused her attention on the stirring figure on the stretcher. "Does he exhibit violent tendencies very often?"

"It was nearly every day for the first three months of his stay, especially when we were attempting to see what kind of medication was best suited for him. Finally, we found he responded well to a daily dose of Risperdal, and Ativan for his anxiety spikes. His last flare-up was about a month ago, but we figured it had to do with the deaths occurring around West Medical Lake."

"Do you think Robert is violent enough during his outbursts to seriously hurt someone?" Derek probed.

Fisher sighed, letting his chin touch his chest for a brief moment. "Robert is a troubled young man. He attacked his mother about a year ago in the midst of a fit of rage, and then held a gun to his head for four hours in a stand-off with the Spokane police before finally surrendering. She thankfully only suffered mild injuries, but he bashed her over the head with a ceramic pot and could have easily killed her."

Derek and JJ shared a look—Hughes' method of violence, his MO, aligned almost perfectly with the homicides taking place at the hospital—even the choice to attack women could be interpreted as displaced hostility toward his mother. "I want to speak to him. It looks like he woke up."

"Uh, I would advise against that, Agent Morgan," Fisher protested.

The agents stood despite Fisher's objections. "Sorry, Doctor, but we need to interview him. Choosing to do it later just prolongs the inevitable and it's important to do this when everything is still fresh in his mind."

The two pushed through the door, greeted with the sterile room and light green walls, and the young man panting hysterically on the bed. Hughes tugged at the restraints and tossed his head, ignoring the bodies at either side of him.

"Robert?" JJ asked, hoping he would be more responsive than the last time she attempted to talk to him.

"Leave me alone," he moaned, curling into a haphazard fetal position.

Derek leaned in close but Hughes reared away, turning toward JJ, and she nervously moved a step back. "Sorry, man, we can't do that. You need to talk to us."

"Fuck you."

The agent snickered quietly, but was cut off quickly when a head that felt like it was made of stone crashed into Derek's face.

* * *

Before

JJ happily relinquished the driver's seat to Rossi once the two of them finally got onto the road, a solid hour after she had spoken to Emily. It was full dark, with lightning cutting the blackness sporadically, unleashing the two agents with a deluge of hail and rain, making driving a hazardous feat. Flatter roads were nearly flooded with groundwater and caused the SUV to fishtail uncontrollably. Fortunately Dave had chosen to bring the vehicle's speed to a crawl, and no other cars were out—people were smartly choosing to stay home during the storm—so there was no pressure to go any faster. The headlights strained through the wall of precipitation, and JJ chewed her lip nervously not for the first time since they had all climbed off of the plane onto the tarmac back at the Spokane airport.

"Are you sure we're going the right way, Dave?" she asked, eying the GPS system. According to Garmin, they were on the right road, but street signs were extremely difficult to read and after following that particular highway for what seemed like ages and slowly moving along to avoid sliding all over the pavement, she was beginning to doubt whether their satellite connection was strong enough to give them accurate directions.

"Don't worry, JJ. It's just a little bit of a sprinkle." He smiled as she raised her eyebrows sardonically. "I've driven over an ice-covered Hells Gate bridge through white-out blizzard conditions. A rain shower is _facile_ compared to that."

She knew that she could trust Dave, and that it was merely a childhood fear rearing its ugly head that caused her to doubt him at all. She could remember similar nights on the road with her mother and siblings, fearfully watching the dangers from her young vantage point. Her mother wasn't the safest driver, especially in rural locations—the woman was certainly better suited to remaining in the metropolitan of Pittsburgh—more city lights and help around the corner if the need arose. Probably why JJ preferred living in the most densely populated area of the country. Somehow the urban jungle felt safer.

They proceeded in silence and JJ was starting to nod off when Dave hit the brakes, which jolted her forward until her seatbelt locked in place and kept her from flying into the dashboard. Her heart leapt into her throat and she grabbed ahold of anything solid.

"What the hell, Dave?" she gasped, but was stricken with surprise at the figure standing in the headlights.

A young woman, drenched, naked save for her bra and underwear. She stared at them in confusion, as if she were wondering why _they _were on the road.

Dave opened the door and JJ followed suit, approaching the woman in caution. It was unlikely that she'd be capable of a violent attack in her condition, but they could never be too sure…or too careful.

"Excuse me, ma'am," Dave began, maintaining a three-foot distance. "Are you okay?"

She continued to stare at the front of the vehicle in a daze, hands dangling at her sides. Her feet were bare and her toes were a concerning shade of purple—she was at risk of being overcome by exposure if they didn't do something.

JJ turned to her colleague. "Should we call 9-1-1?"

He held up his hand. "Hold on." He moved a little closer to the woman. "Honey, are you lost?"

At last, a flicker of awareness shined in her eyes. "Who are you?" She faltered briefly, and the two agents reached out and held her in place to keep her from falling.

"Let's get you into the SUV. You look pretty cold."

* * *

The other agents were following Dr. Fisher as he gave them an impromptu tour of the hospital, darkened as a result of the hour. The interior remained lit with the soft glow of a few desk lamps, but the dorms were entirely pitch-black. Reid kept himself a few steps behind the rest as he examined the décor, the color of paint used for the walls, the texture of the carpet under his shoes. His brain registered the thought that any one of these minute details could set one of the residents off, and conversely, long-term patients often found themselves relying entirely on the familiarity of their surroundings, that any change was upsetting for their tenuous psychiatric health. Anything that disrupted their routine actually disturbed their mental state. A chilling realization was that Reid understood this perception. He needed the same kind of rigid structure in his own living and work environments. If anything were out of place, his entire day could be thrown off.

His inquisitive eyes trailed over the serene paintings and cheerful plants lining the hallways, then fell onto one of the doors that led to the women's dorm. They were in an area of the hospital for short-term patients, ladies that were likely staying only for a small duration—mostly for evaluation or fulfilling legal requirements set down by police officer or physician holds. Reid noticed that the door was open a crack. None of the other dorms that they had passed were open, so this was disquieting and piqued his interest.

"Uh, Dr. Fisher? This door is open," Spencer called out before he pushed it further, and then tiptoed inside, mindful to remain quiet in lieu of the sleeping patients. He glanced around, noticing the vacant tables and the chairs that were stacked one on top of the other, then to the nurse's station. His eyes swept the entirety of the dorm despite the dimness, and he could make out the rooms—there were six overall. Knowing that there were two beds in each room, there was supposed to be a total of twelve women in this particular dorm.

Fisher slinked past the heavy door and followed the young doctor inside, meeting Reid as he paused in front of one Room 4. He pointed at the bed off to the left, blankets flung to the side as if someone had tossed them away quickly, but most importantly it was empty. Reid's forehead creased in concern. "Someone is missing."

They both knew what this meant. Another potential murder victim.


End file.
